Thursday, October 04, 2007

He bade them sit and watch from cozy chairs.Rabbit, he said, and there it was, a juggedHare, for the coarse of palate. He said, Sun!And into the room his kid slouched. "What up, Pops?"This isn't a piece of cake, he told them. There,Right on the rug, synthetic, hard as brass,A slice of apricot pie declared itself.Poets do magic. What they want is sense,He said. A copper spray of pennies sailedLustily round the room, harboring onThe children's shoulders. Not no other word,The poet shouted: ungrammatically,Their room, and all and everyone, was gone,And he alone was left to tell some tale.